


The Queue

by zizis



Category: Holby City
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-22 23:30:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17672189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zizis/pseuds/zizis
Summary: An AU in which they meet.Canon does not exist.





	1. Morning

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by my own experience of queuing at 4.00 am at the National Theatre one bitterly cold morning for tickets to see Cate Blanchett in a sold out play. I got two on-the-day tickets, but there I'm afraid the similarity ends. Not even the reference to Cate in the play bears any resemblance to reality.

It was a moment of madness. Bernie knew that. But it was a chance to see one of her favourite actors on stage, in a sold out play at the National. She wasn’t working at the moment, her leg was improving, and she felt it could probably cope with, what was it, five hours sitting in the cold on the South Bank outside the theatre until the box office opened. Come on. She’d done a lot more challenging things when she was still in the army. She laughed. Berenice Wolfe, you’ve gone soft. And she hoisted her small back pack onto her shoulders, and grasping her stick firmly, strode out of the station.

A night bus, and then a walk over Waterloo Bridge. She’s never been much of a city person, but she had to admit there was something magnificent about London, especially in the early hours. Even now, at 4.00 am, the city seemed ablaze with light and colour. To her left the blue lit suspension swathes of the Hungerford Bridge, and the red circle of lights around the now stationary Eye. To her right the red crane warning lights poking above the city scape, the offices that never sleep their windows lit bright. And below, bisecting it all, the now quiet waters of the Thames, softly shimmering with their reflections.

She feels quite warm beneath her various layers, but knows that she’ll be grateful for each one of them once she arrives, and stops, still, exposed to the elements. But she is already relishing the thought. After so many months stuck, immobile in a bed, willing her body to heal, and then months of relearning how to walk again, an expedition with just her walking stick is almost thrilling.

Down the steps from the bridge, and across the National forecourt she sees the queue already forming. Counts. Seven ahead of her. Calculates. Two apiece. At least twenty available. She should be in with a chance. She nods at the Japanese woman plugged into her ipod ahead of her in the queue, and gingerly lowers herself to the ground. She smiles to herself and briefly closes her eyes.

**********

Serena walks along the embankment past the Royal Festival Hall, past the BFI, under Waterloo Bridge. There is a hum of traffic above her. London never stops. Not even at 4.30 in the morning. She is bonkers. She recognises that. When she told Elinor what she was doing, her daughter had looked at her askance, “Is this some sort of mid-life crisis ?”

But she has never managed to see Cate Blanchett on stage, and she so wants to. It is of course sold out, but for the few tickets released daily for that evening’s performance. It’s perfect, she figures. She has two days off. Go up to London. Check into a hotel. Try your chances. And, if you don’t succeed, well, it’s London. So much else to do and enjoy. Which is why, in the early hours of a freezing cold January morning, she is making her way to the theatre pretty much resembling an eskimo, layer upon layer of clothing, including some very fetching thermal underwear enlisted from Elinor’s skiing kit, clutching a cushion. No cold bum for her, thank you.

She walks over to the back of the queue. Eight people in front of her. She’s called ahead to enquire as to how many will be offered each day. She’s definitely in with a chance.

“Is this the end of the queue ?” she asks.

The person seated below her, legs stretched out on the ground, a walking stick beside them, replies, “Yes. Think we should be okay though.”

It is a woman, a peaked cap pulled firm around her head. She looks up at Serena and smiles. Serena notes the warmth of the woman’s smile, in contrast to the cold bite of the air around them. She smiles back. She places her cushion on the floor next to her and takes up her position, as ninth in the queue, beside her.

“Are we mad ?” she asks her.

“Most probably. Not something I thought I’d be doing at my age.”

Serena laughs.

“Me neither.”

The queue is comprised mainly of young people. More Elinor’s age than her own. Except maybe for this woman, who she guesses is a similar sort of vintage to herself, from what she can tell from beneath the cap, the scarf and everything else that’s there to provide a modicum of warmth.

Serena burrows in her bag and pull out one of the two flasks she’s brought with. She wonders what the etiquette is.

“Coffee ?” she offers.

“That’s very nice of you. Are you sure ?”

“I have plenty. I’ve another flask too,” she confesses.

She poaches the top from the second flask and pours them each a cup.

“Strong and hot is all I care about on a day like today,” she says as she hands the cup over, “I’m Serena by the way.”

“And I’m Bernie. Very pleased to meet you.”

And Bernie smiles that smile again. Even in the half light Bernie’s eyes seem to shine. Serena doesn’t understand why, but the smile makes her feel, well, confused. Whilst she is trying to work out why she feels so strangely, Bernie has plucked a large bar of chocolate from her back pack, and is holding it out towards Serena.

“Would you like some chocolate ?”

“I’d love some.”

And Bernie peels off her gloves to break a line of chocolate off for Serena. Serena notices her fingers, long and slender, no evidence of a wedding ring, though why any of this should matter she has no idea.

The rest of the queue seems quiet. Some at the front are curled up in sleeping bags and look to have been there all night. More are joining at the rear, a trickle that turns into a flow once the tube starts running. Sitting side by side, sipping hot coffee, and savouring cubes of sweet hazelnutted chocolate. Serena and Bernie fall into easy conversation. Serena talks of her daughter’s concern for her current mental state. And this leads to Bernie talking of her two children, now seemingly flown the nest. They discover ex husbands, and that they are both surgeons. What were the chances ? Bernie confesses that she is not working right now. Doesn’t explain why. And Serena feels it would be wrong to press her. She wonders if it is something to do with her leg, with the need for a stick, the one that stretches out beside her. Bernie catches her glancing at it.

“Recovering from an injury,” is all she says.

Serena colours red at her obvious intrusion into something personal, but they move on, and no offence seems to be taken.

************

Night pales into dawn, the sky slowly bleaching. They chatter, they fall silent. Bernie even nods off for a bit, her head slumping forward onto her chest. Then they chatter some more. They share coffee, and chocolate, and a large bag of nuts and raisins that Bernie also extracts from her pack. Despite the thick socks and her lined boots, Serena’s toes are beginning to feel very cold. But somehow it doesn’t matter. Because she is enjoying herself. Who would have thought ?

And when the box office finally opens, they are lucky. A ticket each. Next to each other.

“We did it.”

“We most certainly did.”

“So, until tonight,” Bernie says. It is almost a question.

“Thank you for making the queuing so much fun, Bernie”

Bernie smiles, if a little awkwardly.

“Bernie, what are your plans now ?”

“I hadn’t really thought that far ahead. Probably to grab some breakfast, somewhere warm, preferably with a comfy sofa,” she adds.

“I have a hotel room,” Serena finds herself almost blurting out.

Bernie says nothing.

“If you wanted, you could come back with me. We could get some food and maybe a few hours sleep ?”

Bernie is a complete stranger, or at least she was five hours ago. Maybe Elinor is right. Maybe she is losing the plot.

Bernie shuffles a bit. Serena feels foolish. The last thing she wants to do is make her feel uncomfortable. But then she hears Bernie’s soft low almost hoarse voice say,

“Are you sure ?”

“It’s no problem. It’s a large bed.”

Serena colours. Why on earth did she say that ?

“I confess I am rather tired. I’m afraid I don’t have the stamina I once did.”

“Then that’s sorted.”

 


	2. Afternoon

The hotel is no distance away. They are there within ten minutes. It is warm. They order room service – coffee and croissants.

“I could really do with a hot shower to thaw me out. Do you mind ? You’re welcome to one too, if you’d like.”

Bernie perches awkwardly on the edge of the bed as Serena disappears into the ensuite. She hears the shower start up, the door to the stall open and close as Serena steps in, and then the low hum of this strangely intoxicating woman as she sings softly beneath the spray of the hot water. She tries not to think of what Serena must look like now. She feels awkward. As if she’s there under false pretences. Serena would never have asked her back if she knew. If she knew who, or what, Bernie was. If she knew what was running though Bernie’s mind right now. But here she is. And god, she feels tired. If she just falls asleep, then, well, nothing will happen, no one need feel embarrassed. She hoofs off her boots and stretches back on the bed, wondering what happens next.

When Serena comes back out of the bathroom, her hair swept up in a towel, the fluffy robe pulled tight around her waist, she sees a fully clothed Bernie fast asleep on top of the bed. She looks so peaceful and, is it, vulnerable ? She feels an overwhelming sense of tenderness towards her. Carefully, so as not to disturb her, she pulls the top cover over Bernie, sets the alarm for three hours’ time, and clambers into the bed herself. Laying there on her back, she can hear the soft rhythm of Bernie’s breaths. She tries to sleep but competing with Bernie is her own heartbeat, fast and hard. It is shouting Bernie’s name at her, but she cannot, will not, reason why. Eventually she drifts off into a slumber of her own, wondering, as she does, what happens next.

**********

When the alarm rudely interrupts their nap, Bernie springs awake. For a moment she wonders where she is. There is a warm breath caressing her cheek, and she slowly turns to see Serena asleep on the pillow beside her. She quickly turns away, lest she linger too long in her gaze. The woman is beautiful.

“What time is it ?” she hears her mumble.

“What time did you set the alarm for ?”

Serena turns to the radio alarm clock on the bedside table by her.

“Ah. 1 o’clock. Did you sleep ?”

“Yes. Thank you,” Bernie has now sat up and positioned herself on the edge of the bed, her back to Serena. She cannot allow herself to watch, let alone imagine, her lying in bed beside her, “I so appreciate you letting me bunk down for a few hours. More chance of me enjoying seeing Cate tonight if I’m actually awake.”

Serena rises from the bed and pads across the room to the curtains. Drawing them open, the view is across the river. The sky is now a clear bright blue. Bernie can’t help but look at Serena, the way her night shirt falls around her hips, her bare shapely legs below. Just don’t even go there, her inner voice cautions.

“It’s a beautiful afternoon. Do you fancy a walk ?”

Anything to get out of this damn room, Bernie thinks.

“Yes !”

************

And so it is only natural that they spend the afternoon together. They stroll along the south bank of the river, heading in the direction of Westminster. Serena, whilst still wisely wrapped up warm, has dispensed with some of the many layers of her early morning garb, and Bernie can’t help but appreciate the now more obvious generous curves of her body.

They amble at a gentle pace, Serena careful not to push Bernie and her stick too fast. She senses a tension exuding from Bernie. Puts it down to a frustration at not yet having regained her former full mobility. But despite this, she finds herself entranced by Bernie. Knows that in their brief acquaintance she has only scratched the surface. Finds she wants to know, to discover, so much more.

The queue for the Eye is short. There are few souls hardy enough to venture out on such a cold day, despite the clear skies.

“Shall we ?” Serena catches Bernie’s arm, pulling her close conspiratorially.

It is a long time since another human being, who wasn’t her physio or someone else in a similar medical capacity, has touched Bernie. Even through the layers of her clothing, the touch sets her skin on fire. She finds herself tongue tied, but nods, and beams as she sees Serena’s eyes light up with excitement.

Their pod is practically empty, save for some foreign tourists, whom they oblige by taking a few group photos of. Then they immerse themselves in each other and the excitement of pointing out the sites below them as the wheel climbs higher and London reveals itself beneath them. Bernie finds Serena’s hand repeatedly falling on her arms as she points to this place, then that. Ever tactile. Each time her heart skips a beat at the thrill of it, even though she presumes this is just Serena’s way. London has never looked so magnificent.

From the Eye, they walk over Westminster Bridge towards the Houses of Parliament, and feel the chime of Big Ben as it tolls above them. Then back along the Embankment as far as Temple. They wander around the cloistered alleys of the Inns of Court, marvelling at the peace and quiet, only moments from the constant roar of the London traffic on the roads beyond. Then up towards St Pauls and back across the river via the Millennium Bridge.

Bernie’s leg is certainly getting a good work out. It’s beginning to burn and ache. But she doesn’t want to say anything that might interrupt this day. This perfect day. The sound of Serena’s warm laughter that dances around her.

But the leg is really protesting now, and she can’t help but wince. Serena notices.

“Oh Bernie. Your leg. I’m so sorry. I didn’t think.” She is mortified, her face full of concern.

“It’s okay. Really. But, perhaps we could have a sit down soon ?” Bernie concedes.

It is 5.00pm. They decide on an early supper. They pass an unremarkable looking Italian restaurant and venture in. As Bernie lowers herself into her chair she can’t help but let out an audible sigh of relief.

“You should’ve said Bernie. I’m so sorry if it was too much.”

“I would have said something earlier if I’d wanted to stop. It’s been so good to have a proper walk Serena. You have no idea.”

They order bowls of pasta, crusty garlic bread, and share a bottle of unspecified red wine. Serena frowns as she takes a sip.

“Do you mind if I ask what happened ?” Serena ventures. It seems less intrusive now Bernie feels no longer a stranger. A friend ?

The wine, despite its’ thin and almost sour taste, is relaxing both Bernie’s muscles and her tongue.

“I was blown up by an IED when I was stationed in Afghanistan,” and she explains how she was a trauma surgeon with the RAMC, and how, after her jeep was blown up by a landmine, she was flown back to the UK for surgery. How she was lucky not to be paralysed, and how it has been a long and frustratingly slow recovery.

Serena listens, her heart aching at the thought of Bernie having to face the possibility that she might never walk again. She wants to hug her, but she doesn’t. Instead she reaches across the table to squeeze her hand. Bernie looks down at Serena’s hand on hers. She does not know how to respond. So she does nothing. Leaves it there. And when the gentle squeeze is over, and Serena withdraws her hand, she remembers to breathe again. And they continue with their meal.

After, it is only a short walk to the theatre. They take their seats. As the lights begin to go down, Bernie catches Serena smile and wink at her, before turning her head towards the stage in expectation. Bernie wonders then if she’ll be able to concentrate on the play at all, as silence falls around her.


	3. Night

Truth be told the play itself is a perhaps a little disappointing, though Cate’s performance itself is electric. The long anticipated monologue is a master class in the power of understatement. As Cate rises to cross the stage to deliver it, Bernie feels Serena reach for her hand once more, and this time she finds the courage to squeeze back, to clasp it tight. And there in the hushed darkness, they sit hand in hand.

The applause at the end is appreciative and enthusiastic. It is over. Bernie is suddenly aware, amongst the sounds of chair seats flipping shut and chatter as coats are donned, that this is it. The day is over. She feels a sinking sense of loss.

Silently, both she and Serena pull on their coats and scarves, and make their way to the foyer. It is getting late. She’ll need to crack on if she’s to make her train. Reluctantly, she turns to Serena to make her farewell.

“Thank you. It’s been a wonderful day. I’ve so enjoyed spending it with you.”

“Have you time for a drink ?”

“I’m sorry, no. Not if I want to catch a train home tonight.”

Bernie pauses. Then leans in to kiss Serena’s cheek. It is soft. Soft against her lips. She catches them against the creases at the edge of Serena’s smile. She feels Serena’s hands on her arms again, then the whispered words against her ear,

“Don’t go.”

She pulls back, uncertain.

“Stay,” she hears.

She searches Serena’s face, trying to work out if she understands her correctly.

“Stay,” Serena repeats.

Bernie’s heart is pounding so hard she is sure the whole world can hear it.

“Ok,” she nods.

************

They walk in silence back through the crisp late night air, Serena’s arm looped in Bernie’s, pressed close against each other’s sides in nervous anticipation.

Inside the hotel room once more, coats and hats and scarves are hastily and carelessly discarded. And then their lips are upon each other, drinking each other in, pulling each other closer and closer. Hungry. Feverish. Desperate. Jumpers pulled over heads. Buttons undone.

Serena steps out of her trousers. Her shirt open. Bernie reaches for her breast, cupping it gently, slowly dragging her thumb across a hardened nipple. Her lips find Serena’s neck, her tongue tracing down it, across her clavicle, the swell of her breasts. She hears Serena moaning her name. Then Serena takes her hand and places it against her core. She can feel the extent of Serena’s want as she cups and strokes her, hears the soft intake of breath as she moves her fingers from outside to inside of her underwear. She slides and strokes and dips and,

“Oh god.”

And Serena is shaking and trembling as she comes. She feels the press of Serena’s hand to still her.

“I’m sorry,” she hears her say.

Bernie pulls back in surprise, “Why sorry?”

Serena is sheepish, “So quick,” she murmurs, embarrassed, and, as if by further explanation, “It’s just, it’s just, I’ve been wanting to do that all day.”

Bernie leans forward taking Serena’s face in both hands, and kisses her, long and deep. Then she takes Serena’s hand and pushes it down beyond the unzipped fly of her own jeans, til Serena’s fingers slide across the evidence of her own desire, her own slickening want.

“Oh Bernie.”

Their eyes are fixed upon each other as Serena takes control of the pace. Bernie can feel the tension coiling within her, her breath quickening. She thinks her legs may give way. Mumbles, “Bed.”

They back onto the bed, dragging Bernie’s jeans from her as they go. Less restricted now, Bernie’s hips cant to meet Serena’s hand in a perfect counter rhythm. She can feel the edge approaching, and there is nothing but this moment, as she bursts around Serena’s fingers and cries out her name.

They fall back against the bed. Serena’s hand now stills against Bernie’s cunt, still quivering with the aftershocks of her climax. They lie there in silence for a while, a bit in awe of what has just happened, as the thudding in Bernie’s chest calms. Bernie worms her hand towards Serena’s and intertwines her fingers.

“Me too,” she says, “Me too.”

They roll onto their sides to face each other. Serena traces the outline of Bernie’s face, softly sweeping back the damp hair from her forehead. Her fingers trace across her cheekbones, across her thin lips, the line of her strong jaw. Down past the unbuttoned shirt, along the scar that bisects her breasts. Bernie watches the look of wonder on Serena’s face as she explores Bernie so, and waits patiently until Serena pauses.

Then she hears her say, “You’re beautiful Bernie, so beautiful,” as she takes Bernie’s mouth against hers.

It is late. It’s been a long, very long day. But neither cares. The kiss is long and languid. Serena feels herself melt into it, and frowns when Bernie pulls away, until she feels Bernie’s lips warm on her breast, sucking gently, then more firmly, through the fabric of her bra. But then that too is abandoned as Bernie’s mouth makes its’ way down her body, kissing and tasting every inch of her skin, worshipping even the round swell of her stomach that usually she’d keep hidden from view or touch. But not from Bernie. Bernie’s mouth now hot against her cunt, her underwear flung away. Bernie’s tongue salving and teasing, her fingers dipping and curling. And Serena is riding a wave of pleasure, where time is meaningless, and all is sensation and ecstasy.


	4. The morning after the night before

It is the pain in her leg that wakes Bernie. The stiffness in her ravaged joints that sets in in the absence of movement. She needs to stretch it, to massage the muscles. But her legs have somehow intertwined with Serena’s in the night. The woman is still sleeping fast beside her, little soft exhales of breathe the only sound. She doesn’t want to disturb her. She lays there gritting her teeth, frowning at the discomfort. She has to stretch. Slowly she tries to untangle her limbs. Serena seems to stir, but then a sigh, and she readjusts herself and Bernie is free.

She swings her traitorous leg off the bed, and rubbing at it perches there for a while. It is morning. The radio alarm clock signals 7.30 am. She has no idea what time they fell asleep last night. Last night. She turns and looks at Serena. Her short silvered hair squashed up against the pillow, the lines on her face smooth in repose. She thinks of the warm voluptuous body now hidden beneath the duvet and how wonderful it felt last night to lose herself in it. She looks down at her own leaner frame. The scars that drag themselves across it, her nipples puckering in the chill air. Recalls when it was strong and toned, not pale and marked and scrawny. The wasted muscles on her thin ruined leg. This, she thinks, this is what I am now. Ugly. Why would Serena want this ? What do I have to offer ? I can’t even work now. The self loathing takes hold. She couldn’t bear to see the disappointment on Serena’s face, in the cold light of day, once the adrenalin rush of the previous day has passed. She needs to leave. She needs to leave now. Leave Serena with the memory of a fantasy. The kindest thing to do.

She scans the room for her clothes. They are not easy to locate, scattered as they are. She finds her jeans and pants. No sign of her bra. Damn it. She’ll go without it. Her fingers are trembling as she does up the buttons on her shirt. She is panicking.

“Are you leaving ?” says a voice.

She stops. Frozen. Caught like a rabbit in headlights.

“Bernie, are you leaving ?” she hears the voice repeat itself. Senses the edge of anxiety caught on it. She daren’t respond. She daren’t turn to face Serena.

“Did I say something ? Do something wrong ?”

No. No. She can’t let Serena think this is her fault. She turns quickly.

“No. No. Not you.”

“Then why are you leaving without even saying goodbye ?”

There is more control in her voice this time, even a sternness, but the rise and fall of her chest as she sits up in bed, the duvet pulled up around her, betrays her.

“Bernie ?”

Bernie stands and walks slowly around the bed to Serena’s side, then, gingerly, lowers herself to her knees beside her. She takes Serena’s hand. Serena waits. Truth Bernie. Truth. She swallows.

“Because I’m afraid to stay.”

Serena says nothing. There is more. She waits.

“Yesterday. Last night. It…..” Bernie falters, “I …..Serena, I like you.”

She pauses again.

Slowly Serena responds, “I like you too, Bernie. Very much.”

“No Serena. I don’t think you understand. I, I, I more than like you.”

“And that’s a reason to leave and simply disappear ?”

“I’ve only known you for what ? 24 hours ? I have a terrible track record. And, I have literally nothing to offer you.”

“Bernie. Listen. Please. I’ve no idea where this is going. No one ever does. But this I do know. I have never felt so strongly about someone in such a short space of time as I do about you. I don’t do “one night stands”. What happened last night meant something Bernie. You mean something. And if it’s okay with you, I’d like to see where this goes.”

Bernie can feel her chest pounding.

Serena continues, more sure of herself now, “But if you do insist on leaving, at least allow me to do the buttons on your shirt up correctly.”

Bernie looks down. In her panic she has mismatched the buttons to their holes. She is an idiot. A smile breaks across her face. She is an idiot. A laugh bubbles up inside her as she turns towards Serena, the duvet now fallen from her, her full breasts naked and exposed as she leans forward to undo the buttons of Bernie’s shirt. Bernie bends forward, her lips finding Serena’s, as Serena pushes the shirt back off her shoulders, sweeping the palms of her hands across Bernie’s rising nipples as she does so.

And in that moment, as their lips crush together and part, they make their decision. Bernie is not leaving, not now, nor anytime soon.


End file.
